


Teacher

by corrinsovipositor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Birds, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Male My Unit | Byleth, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrinsovipositor/pseuds/corrinsovipositor
Summary: Byleth has given out a LOT of flowers. Marianne feels like she should do something with them.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Teacher

**Author's Note:**

> hi, thanks for clicking and happy Valentines! hope you enjoy the read :>  
> Most of the biological stuff hereafter is sound, but one thing I did want to make a note of is Marianne referring to a "magpie"; this would be an analogue of the Eurasian magpie (Pica pica) or close relatives, NOT the Australian kind that there are all sorts of horror stories about. I couldn't really put this in without mentioning world regions which would be...an anatopism? (perhaps the fact that parrots are mentioned anyway would count, but I digress) In any case, if you're reading from Australia, rest assured that she's talking about a much more mild-mannered bird.

The frigid breath of winter had come to settle around Garreg Mach, whisking the last traces of autumn away on the breeze. Marianne didn’t dislike the season, even if she _was_ more prone to frostbite than usual. Winter was typically thought of as a mark of death; the departure of the Goddess’s star, the withering of both flora and light of day, the drain of color itself from the world as it turned to ashen shades of gray and white. It wasn’t as grim as all that, really, more like...the earth taking a rest from the strain of the year. It was subdued, calm, but still very much alive. Migratory birds came to fill the boughs of barren trees, chattering to anyone who would listen about the journey they’d been on the past season. Rosehips, barberries, acorns, hickory nuts, and all other manner of fruit weighed down stems and branches, only to be swiped up by enterprising foragers. Predators stalked through the long nights, leaving pawprint records of their efforts to be found scrawled in the morning snow. The heartbeat of life thrummed as it always did, just... in a different way. 

The outdoor grounds were serene in that stillness, beyond the doziness of the natural world. Most students were huddled into their rooms, the knight’s quarters, the dining hall, or anywhere else tucked away from the chill. Those forced to brave the cold traveled briskly, hugging the walls to stay clear of the wind, and scampered for shelter as soon as they found it. The fast approaching ball had swept up any other stragglers indoors for frantic preparations and a litany of gossip. Low temperatures weren’t something she dealt with easily, but for Marianne, this weather was a small mercy from the goddess all the same. It was the perfect time to sit out in front of the stables, warmed by the stark winter sunshine, without crossing paths with anyone. 

A number of rickety tables were set up across from the stalls, cloistered among barrels, crates, odd planks of wood, bags of feed, and all other manner of things that had no proper place to be. Given the proximity, it seemed a pale echo of the pavilion in the courtyard, lacking settings, plating, and atmosphere, but the area was perfectly functional for what it was. Though abandoned at the moment, knights typically took repose here, flopping down into the aged seats that sagged and squealed in protest. Conversation was friendly and loud, punctuated by the clinks of glasses and armor, and as soon as one group left, another immediately shifted into its place. 

The only voices in the air now were the nickers and whinnies of the horses, and only Marianne sat at the cluttered section of tables. Dorte had spoken to her earlier this afternoon, huffing breaths of steam into the freezing air, stamping and clopping merrily against the frigid ground of his stall. He was especially fond of winter in Garreg Mach, as were most of the horses. They were bred in Faerghus, so it only made sense for this weather to feel like home to them. Marianne had been combing her hands through his coat, trying to coax out that stubborn tangle that always formed at the base of Dorte’s nape. He’d snorted irritably about how no one wanted to ride him when _he_ wanted to go for a run. She laughed as he shook his head, marked by a _snap-snap_ as his ears hit against his neck, and told him not everyone was as suited for the chill as he was. And it was true; while she was grooming him, the warmth nestled into his coat was more than enough to thaw her fingers, like holding her hand to a fireplace. Looking down at her work now, she missed that feeling like nothing else, but she had so much left to do.

_“Why don’t you make flower chains?”_

When Hilda had first said that, it had been a suggestion, but it blossomed into a command as their conversation continued. Marianne had too many lilies of the valley, she needed something to do with them, yes, she did remember how to make garlands, and then she was being herded out to find a place to do so. It came completely naturally to Hilda, that the only obstacle to doing something was the decision to do it—as long as it was someone else, anyway. Nevermind that Marianne had nothing to do with garlands any more than she had something to do with the flowers themselves (not that she disliked them, but she was out of vases), but disregarding such trivialities also came to Hilda quite easily. Or maybe she was just eager for a viable reason to force Marianne to spend time out in the open, as she was so insistent on. 

“ _Did the professor give those to you?_ ” she’d said, innocently inclining her chin to the small bundle of flowers in Marianne’s hand. The younger girl had flinched, but nodded weakly, thoughts of the current gossip wilting her posture. People were never very successful at discussing her behind her back, but they never really tried to. The subject of their whispers mysteriously turned to Marianne as soon as she was within earshot, tones going far past what could be called “hushed”. The voice they used was the facade of a whisper, hoarse and hissing enough to imply secrecy, but spoken with such volume to make it functionally purposeless. It was how people spoke when they were aware that they were being cruel, but wanted the object of their scorn to know and suffer for it. 

A clump of students from the Kingdom had passed her on the way to the dormitories the other day, growing silent as she approached, and rousing into mutters as soon as they saw her back. Marianne tried to ignore it most of the time, but she caught the words “ _her professor_ ” and “ _grades_ ” and had nearly frozen in place. She tilted her head only a fraction to see them, but they were already gone, giggles and snickers congealing to a heavy cloud of mist in the winter air. 

Hilda had only given a resigned nod in response, though, shrugging her head to one side. “ _He gave me a bunch of flowers too. They’re cute, but there’s a time when a girl has enough, you know? I think our professor spends a little bit too much of his time in the greenhouse._ ” She left it at that, going on to talk about the possibilities of accessory making, like there had been nothing else at hand. Hilda kept her ears open for anything and everything, so she _must_ have heard the rumor those students had been so eager to jeer about. Marianne hadn’t the time to dwell on it then, as the topic rapidly changed to how sunny it was today, how few people would be outside to bother her, and then she was completely swept out on the current of Hilda’s will, dazed and flowers in hand. 

The talk was common, about her, and it wasn’t entirely wrong. Her presence was a threat, her peers had straightened that out well enough, they just invented the particulars as to why. She was an illegitimate child of a Kingdom noble, her parents disowned her for practicing forbidden forms of magic, her prayers were because she’d committed some horrible crime in her past; some new scandal about Marianne would surface every moon, and then the students would get bored of it and presume something else. It didn’t bother her because it helped keep them away, and that was better for everyone. But involving her professor in that hearsay was making it his burden rather than just hers, and that wasn’t something she ever wanted to shoulder him with. She could only do as she always did: keep her distance, and pray for the goddess to have mercy for her shortcomings.

Weaving garlands wasn’t the most involved work, so those kinds of thoughts were left to smear and darken the sunny afternoon. It was a tad more difficult to braid lilies of the valley, as she had to take care to prevent the branching flowers from getting woven into the chain, but it wasn’t enough to keep her mind from wandering. Left, right, pull, left, right, pull, left, right, pull, add another flower, left, right, pull...She’d already made her first one far longer than she’d planned, mindlessly going on like that. Her supply hadn’t even seemed to decrease any further...Hilda was probably right, one way or the other. Byleth had to spend an inordinate amount of time among the flora if he managed to cultivate this many, and they were so healthy, too. The stems were a verdant green, firm, flexible, and proliferous in countless delicate flowers. Their feather soft petals had blossomed in verdure, each tinging the air with the scent of warmth and the promise of spring. How he could bring something like this to grow, let alone keep up with his training, manage his lectures, and even find time for his students—

There was a shout and the sound of a door smashing open from the main hall, and Marianne was knocked out of her mind so fast she momentarily lost track of her body. The chain fell from her hand, toppling a number of stems along with it, as she automatically tensed in the fear that anger was meant for her. She frantically swept up the flowers from ground, streaking them with dust in a complete panic to clear the area as fast as possible, but she heard the voice again, and the thrum of adrenaline to her shaking hands slowed. The shout belonged to Caspar von Bergliez, and apparently, that was just how he spoke. The cats around the market were especially fond of him for always sharing whatever food he had on hand, but they had their gripes; namely, that his volume could be...overwhelming, especially on their sensitive ears. Even so, most of the things they had to say about him were positive, so she allowed herself to breathe. He would probably continue on past her without a second thought on the chance he even came this way, Marianne assured herself, gently placing the flowers back on the table. 

She was quickly proven wrong, however, by the sound of approaching footsteps around the corner of the building. Two sets, one rushing along with a light _tap-tap-tap_ , the other at a more measured and calm pace, though they seemed to be keeping stride. Marianne shrunk as she remembered Caspar’s friendship with Linhardt, the dozy boy who was far too interested in the particulars of her Crest (and, allegedly, friendly with cats, but never as generous with scraps). She was facing the barracks, and as the only person in the vicinity, there was no way they wouldn’t notice her as soon as they rounded the corner. 

Caspar came into sight first, fists raised emphatically and going on about something in a belligerent fervor, head craned over his shoulder to his companion. Who, as it turned out, was not the dreaded Crest researcher, but the professor, a staid counter to his student’s paroxysms. His head was tilted slightly to the side, shoulders relaxed, posture straight, a look he got about him when he was focused on listening to someone else. From the placid, unhurried flow of his gait, he wasn’t the subject of Caspar’s ire, simply an observer. His arms hung freely at his sides, unburdened by the tension he held when he was marching off to do one of the countless tasks he set for himself. Byleth was at complete ease, his body relaxed down to its core like a well-fed cat in the sun, and a small smile warmed Marianne’s cheeks at the comparison. 

They were both standing oblique to her, Caspar wheeling around to face the professor when he reached the end of the stone path. He made no move toward the stables, the hall, or the courtyard; perhaps he was too far caught up in his agitation to notice where he was going. She hadn’t been paying attention to what he said before, but she heard everything clear as day even at this distance. Too many villains at large, he needed to get stronger, things of that nature, interspersed with wild gesticulating. The professor listened quietly with only an occasional nod or comment too soft to hear as response, and then he saw her. 

Whenever he took note of something, in appraisal or just in curiosity, his head quirked just a touch. Sometimes to one side, sometimes inclined forward, and in this case, he pulled his neck back when his eyes flicked to hers. It was an expression of surprise, perhaps even shock given how long his gaze lingered on her. Caspar seemed to notice the lapse in his professor’s focus, as he trailed off and turned to see what was so interesting. His face was blank for a moment when he saw Marianne, then cracked into a cheerful grin. He raised a hand and waved breezily in her direction, as if he hadn’t been having a conniption an instant earlier. She weakly repeated the motion, straining to smile while mortification forced her lower into her chair. The professor was the one to mimic her this time, simply splaying out his fingers for a moment in her direction, before returning his attention to Caspar. 

The conversation continued as it had before, Caspar shifting effortlessly back into a fuss. He was complaining about how the training hall had emptied with the ball in the near future, then asked the professor if he wanted to be his training partner. It seemed that he declined, because Caspar threw his hands into the air in a spectacular shrug, and resolved to go anyway. He turned away in a furor, tossing a goodbye over his shoulder. The professor offered him one in return, and his gaze returned to Marianne. There was a straightness in his posture, a slight restlessness as he shifted on his feet: curiosity. It was the look of a bird appraising the food in her hand, a cat when it watched the feather on her quill flutter along as she wrote, and an expression she saw on Byleth frequently. 

He cantered over to her, overcoat rolling out in wake behind him, and Marianne was suddenly cognizant of the fact that she should’ve been avoiding him. Being seen with him was a poison to his reputation at this point, even if he did just ask a simple question or two. It wasn’t like she held conversations well with him otherwise, and yet the rumors had already reached such a point. No, the best approach was to answer whatever he asked of her, and politely slip away as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He may have heard tell of a scandal himself, she realized with a wince, and had come to reprimand her for it. 

The professor didn’t seem agitated, though. His head was cocked heavily to one side as he reached her table, eyes flitting about this way and that. Songbirds and sparrows often tilted their head at Marianne in the same way, taking in every possible angle that there was to see of her. It came naturally to most living things, that something of interest was best observed in more ways than one, and to inspect it from various views was the rational way to do so. One of his legs was crossed just in front of the other, leaving him to lean forward with his weight on one foot. Intrigue, fascination, there was no way to mistake them—or how completely at ease the professor was at the moment. Not something he should ever be around her.

She was struggling to think of anything to say to excuse herself when he spoke. “What are you doing, Marianne?” he said, his tone soft and smooth, a gentle depth to match his eyes. The question barely registered in Marianne’s state. It was unspeakably rude to not respond to her own professor like this, let alone with her face surely frozen in a panic, as if she were _afraid_ of him. He was being so kind as to trouble himself with her own tedious affairs when he clearly had other things to be doing, and all she could do was gape at him, trepidation killing any words before they made it to her lips. Pretending like nothing was wrong would only cause harm to him in the future; it could even cost him his job, if a gossip happened to see them together. What could she say? What _should_ she say? Why would he even care if she avoided him, as she’d done on countless occasions before—he wouldn’t, so it was just her personal feelings muddying things. She didn’t want to be insensitive to him, but that was what would be for the best. Or was it self-important to feel that way…? Marianne’s thoughts remained in that vicious tangle, any clarity suffocated under coils of doubt and contrition. 

Mercifully, or perhaps unfortunately, the professor took her silence only as a sign to continue talking. He reached for the pile of flowers on the table, sighing as he raised one stem to take a closer look at it. “Lily of the valley,” he said, tapping one of the bell-shaped blooms with a gloved finger. “I read about these earlier...Didn’t I give them to you?” His eyes fell on hers, no anger, only a gleam of curiosity. “Don’t you like them?”

“I—I do.” Marianne was almost surprised when she heard her voice finally come out. It was automatic, and the honest truth. Lilies of the valley were her favorite flower, delicate heralds of vernal prosperity and symbols of the goddess’s benevolence. When the professor had first approached her with one, saying something about how he’d grown it in the greenhouse and thought she might like it, she hadn’t known how to feel. She was happy, first, but then confused, nervous, and in some capacity, ashamed. Then there was the shame for feeling shame, as usual, but it wasn’t enough to eclipse the joy and surprise that lit her heart for a moment. The feeling only grew as time went by, more flowers were brought to her with an even word or two, until her desk looked more like a miniature garden. The guilt hadn’t gone away, but looking at them always brought back that warmth, a gentle, soothing comfort so rare and undeserved. 

For her gratitude, all Marianne managed at the moment was, “Thank you, Professor. They’re lovely.” She cringed at how flimsy the words sounded, and forced herself to speak again. “I really like them, and you gave me a lot, but I couldn’t figure out anything to do with them. Hilda told me I should make garlands.” She glanced at the chain she’d been making before, and every flaw and irregularity became egregious to her eye. “I made one, but…”

The professor made to reach for the garland, then paused and looked at Marianne inquisitively. She nodded sheepishly in response to his unspoken question, and he gingerly picked it up, holding it to the light, flecking his face with sunshine. “You made this?” he said, and she nodded again, sinking in her seat. “How? It’s pretty.”

Marianne blinked, forgetting herself in her bewilderment to raise her gaze to meet his. Was he joking? He didn’t do so often, but...there wasn’t much variance in his delivery, so that could easily be true. Still, the look in his eyes was so open and earnest, devoid of mockery. “Um...It’s just like braiding, but you add flowers in sometimes. It wasn’t very hard.”

He nodded, carefully setting the chain back down on the table, and combed his hand through the flowers he’d given her. “I don’t know how to braid, actually. You’re making garlands for all of these?”

“I’m not sure. I was going to try to make a few, at least.”

“Would you mind showing me how?” her professor said, strolling around to the chair opposite hers. “Maybe I can help you.”

Marianne squeaked out a “ _huh?_ ” before she fully processed what he’d said. Any chance to politely excuse herself was slipping through her fingers before she even noticed it. “I’m fine. It just takes a bit of time, so you shouldn’t concern yourself, Professor,” she said weakly, nearly praying for him to move on for his own sake. 

“No no, I want to help. And I want to know how to make garlands.” He pulled out the seat, then paused before sitting down. “If that’s okay with you, of course.” 

A sigh of relief welled in Marianne’s chest. Considerate as always, he’d given her a means of escape, an opportunity to say she had somewhere to be and leave it at that. Which made it all the more vexing when the next words out of her mouth were, “Why do you want to learn?” 

She’d said it without really thinking, as if his curiosity sprang onto her like a virus. He quirked his neck back again and closed his eyes, humming softly in thought. His head inclined to the left while he mulled over her response, and the curtain of his bangs flowed with him. “It would be nice if I could give people something I made,” he murmured after a moment. “And I think it would be useful to know. Is it strange that I don’t?” 

“I can’t really say for sure. I’ve known how to make them since I was very young.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. Marianne really had no way of knowing if it was a common skill, living in withdrawal as she did. It was, however, strange to imagine that her professor, the man who’d been recognized by the archbishop, a mercenary without peer, astute and adept even as an unfledged instructor, lacked an ability that _she_ had. 

That was to say nothing of the extravagantly surreal idea of someone like her having anything to teach him, yet the way he was looking at her in anticipation made her falter. Chest puffed hopefully, head cocked at a slight angle, dark eyes keen and intent...Byleth looked so, disarmingly, birdlike. “I can try to show you, if you’re sure you’re okay with that…” Marianne said softly.

She shouldn’t have, and she knew it. But the way his eyes lit up, the slight tremor of excitement that ran through his body, how quickly he took his seat and poised himself at the ready—that was why she’d acquiesced. He was happy. Of course, it would vanish easily should she prove inept, but it was enough. Just for a little, she would just show him and take her leave, as was for the best. It was simple, he’d pick it up easily, and she’d be on her way without a chance to deface his reputation. 

Marianne took three flowers from the pile, and the professor repeated her action, watching studiously. She’d already stripped the leaves in preparation, fortunately, so the process would at least be expedited. “So, um, first you take the very top of each stem, below the first flower. Hold all of them there,” she said. Following her words, she laid the flowers out on the table, pressing one finger to their tips to keep them all in place. The embarrassment and remorse had already begun to sink in at that point; this wasn’t even really a step in the process of making garlands, just a way to facilitate the start of the chain. Hearing her own feeble attempts at explaining such a base concept was mortifying, as was the very large possibility that she was insulting the intelligence of her professor. 

He mirrored her with perhaps too much enthusiasm though, jabbing his thumb to the tops of his flowers as if executing them. Marianne’s mind was blank on how to go about describing the process of braiding in words, and it emptied further with every second of those expectant eyes prying into her. “S-so...You cross the stem on the left over the one in the middle, and then cross the one on the right over that one...Oh, and lilies of the valley are inflorescent so you have to be careful not to let the other florets get tangled.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at the professor’s face right now, how bewildered and discomfited he must be, so she just stared at the way her hands automatically wove the stems together and strained to put words to it. _Left, right, pull, left, right, pull, left, right, pull…_ Or was it more like _left-pull right-pull_? “And when you run out of florets on the chain, you add another flower facing out, and, um…”

Marianne tilted her head up from her hands as if to look at the professor, but her eyes—and more importantly, his—were enshrouded by the cowl of her bangs. She’d made him a silhouette of blue and gray, keeping his face veiled so she wouldn’t have to see the disappointment scrawled across it. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at explaining things,” she said. “I think you’d be better off asking someone else, Professor.” 

No response greeted her, and Marianne felt herself shrink up, tucking as far inward as she could manage. She lifted her head to offer another apology, for letting him down near instantaneously in what felt like one failure in an endless horde, and the words withered away. He was staring down at the flowers, delicately entwining each stem with the others. In the wrong way, but for no lack of trying. They unwound themselves quickly, and the professor would swipe his right hand over his ear, straighten himself, and set at it again. His eyes were alight with focus and determination, as if he only had to try his method until the flowers finally gave in and wove together.

He was _trying_ to follow her inscrutable instructions; the least she could do was attempt to fix his mistakes as an extension of her own, with the dedication he was putting in. “You’re...I think you’re crossing one stem under the others,” Marianne said, sliding one hand just a touch towards his. “The one on the left crosses over the middle, then the one on the right, both on top. If that makes sense.” 

“Like this?” The professor asked, angling his head as he focused down at his work. He did the first cross correctly, but ended the second by looping one stem under the two others. It compounded when he did it again, leaving the plants to fall apart once more. A quick, heavy puff of air escaped him, he drew his fingers across his right ear, and continued to repeat his mistake. 

“Um, not quite,” Marianne said, shifting in her seat. How she could explain the issue without using imprecise terms like _right_ , _left_ , _over_ , and _under_ was beyond her, but clearly they were doing her no great service. Any ways to elucidate that flitted through her mind only overcomplicated a truly simple process. What did the professor do if she was having a problem with the curriculum… “I can try to help, if that’s okay,” she murmured, holding her hands out across the table. There was no way to hide her trepidation, but the direct approach was worth a try.

The faintest hum moved his throat as he drew back in surprise, then withdrew entirely, nodding towards his worn out flowers. Marianne mumbled something, perhaps a _thank you_ , perhaps a _sorry_ , she wasn’t really sure. She leaned forward slightly, stomach pressed against the table as she stretched to try to braid his flowers where he left them. Doing so backwards was jarring at first, but the process came naturally after she managed the first cross. Still, she tried to keep her pace moderate to let him get a proper idea of the execution. It was the same way he’d help students overcome any obstacles: demonstration, more often than not of weapon technique, and administration. Now all she had to do was pass the sword to him, as it were. 

“Thank you,” he said as Marianne retreated to her own side of the table. When he reached forward to take his flowers again, his gloved hand brushed hers before she’d fully pulled back, and she jolted away like a startled rabbit. He was so _warm_. Warm enough it had suffused through the glove easily, radiating to anything he touched, nearly putting all the heat Dorte had stocked under his coat to shame. She’d completely forgotten how cold it was until that moment, and the sting on her cheeks was now an angry reminder of the unforgiving weather. How the professor could produce that much heat, she had no idea, but it was suddenly crystal clear why cats loved to cuddle up to him so much. 

“Sorry…” Marianne winced. She’d retracted from him as though even the ghost of his touch burned her, like it was repulsive. Not only an affront, but a patently untrue one at that. 

The professor was entirely lost to his flowers again, however. “No, that was helpful. Thank you, Marianne,” he said absently. He was leaning forward, closing one eye and cocking his head to and fro, adjusting and readjusting his focus. 

There was silence for a bit as he painstakingly lined the three stems up. When he deemed that satisfactory, he began the cautious process of pushing the florets to one side, with such reservation one would think they were made of glass. Marianne had already tied one chain off and begun another by the time he finally braided his stems together a single time. Thankfully, it appeared to hold, though she couldn’t be certain it would stay that way until the next few links. “Did you know these are also called glovewort?”

Marianne didn’t even register that they were his words at first, or perhaps she hadn’t processed that he was talking _to_ her. The gentle measure of his voice was both foreign and familiar, one he never used as an instructor; his tone was soft and light, fit to catch the air and float away like a dandelion seed. She hadn’t expected that...easiness, for such an infamously taciturn person to speak to her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The surprise swallowed any coherent response she might’ve had, leaving her to say only “Huh?”

“Lilies of the valley are sometimes known as glovewort. They were formerly used in the creation of salves to soothe sore hands, hence the name,” the professor said. His eyes didn’t deviate from his garland while he spoke, but he was clearly speaking to her nonetheless. The chain was still of one link, though he was fiddling with a couple stems, crossing and uncrossing them, evidently trying to weigh what to do next. “They were actually used in a lot of medicine, but the spread of healing magic made lily of the valley salves obsolete. Did you know that?” 

“Oh, um, no, I didn’t.” He wasn’t testing her, that much was clear from his tone, but Marianne still felt guilty for having nothing better to say in response. Conversation was not a strength she’d ever have. Words came to her slowly if at all, no matter her investment in the conversation, or her desire to participate. 

The professor nodded slightly, starting his second link with far more meticulousness than necessary. “I read about it the other day,” he said. The left stem went over the middle, then under the right...he was fine thus far. “Parts of the flowers are toxic, too, so they’re dangerous if handled improperly. In the hands of an inexperienced apothecary, it would become a poison rather than a medicine.” He paused, hand stopping halfway through the braid. “Maybe Claude would like lilies of the valley too…”

Maybe it was how earnestly he’d said so, maybe it was because she hadn’t expected it at all, or maybe it was the mental image of the professor giving Claude a bouquet for the express purpose of poisoning people, but a laugh bubbled up in Marianne’s throat. She turned it into a cough as quick as she could, and mercifully, the professor seemed too preoccupied with his ploddingly slow braiding to notice her indiscretion. “I-I did know that they’re poisonous, yes,” Mariane choked out. “I’ve had to keep them out of reach of a few cats.”

His eyes flitted up at that, then over to the stables. “Did Dorte try to take any?” the professor said, head cocked as he peered through the stalls.

A smile crept onto her face at the suggestion. Few people at the monastery were as friendly with the animals as Marianne, but Byleth was among them. “He would’ve, I think. Dorte’s a little too bold in his diet. There was a bit of foxglove near the monastery some time ago, but...Well, not anymore.” Another laugh, and she didn’t suppress it, this time. “It wasn’t too much, so he was okay, but he had such a stomachache.”

Byleth had swiveled his head back towards her, still tilting it over to her left. He had his chin propped up on one hand in an almost languid posture, but his gaze was bright and attentive. “Did you help cure him?”

“Not really, um, directly. I thought about using white magic, but I’ve never tried it on horses, so it may have made Dorte’s condition worse,” she said. Marianne looked down at her hands for a moment, taking note of the nearly completed garland that had formed between them. “So I checked the library for any herbs that could soothe the stomach, or at least help with the pain. I was just lucky they had some in the greenhouse…”

She trailed off as she realized the professor had stopped his braiding, only to listen to her inane rambling. “Sorry...I didn’t mean to go on for so long,” Marianne said. The necessity to show him how to braid and promptly leave had been forgotten. There was no point in running off now, however; if there was damage to his reputation to be done, it was surely irrevocable at this point, and it would only reverse any enthusiasm he’d had if she left him without doing as she’d promised. 

He shook his head, leaning back to his chair to concentrate on chaining again. “No, it’s fine,” he murmured in that low and mild tone, the voice of a dove. The professor wound the right stem inwards, then the left, then—his eyes went fretful a moment, as though he’d lost his place. Charily, he settled on curving the stem in hand under the middle and over the left. The braid failed to hold once more, the exhausted flowers unraveling to the base.

His eyelids fluttered as he deflated, gaze muddled and stained into something Marianne couldn’t read. The fingers of his right hand twitched, and he lifted his arm as he rolled his head all the way over to the side. He rubbed his cheek and his ear back and forth against his shoulder a few times, then straightened himself back up to full posture. Chest puffed with renewed vigor, he set back at the garland with the gleam of a challenge in his eye. 

It had only taken a second or two for him to do it, but the action was so...familiar. He _had_ been fiddling with his right ear before when he was having little success; the recognition went further, though. When animals were agitated, facing a kind of stress or uneasiness, they’d typically groom themselves in some small way to feel safe and secure. Marianne knew many cats in particular that would rub their ears with their paws when they were unhappy, but the way Byleth moved, it wasn’t dissimilar to a bird preening their shoulders, or a deer scraping their antlers along a tree. It was just...natural.

She’d been so terrified of him, when they first met. A lot of people scared her in some way, but the accomplished mercenary that prowled around every corner of Garreg Mach, expression as stern and unwavering as his demeanor, especially so. He was an odd blend of ignorance and acuity, that while he had no knowledge of the church, he always seemed to be examining others when he spoke to them, sizing up what they tried to keep hidden. Being enrolled under fallacious documents was a constant stress, and then this perceptive stranger who knew no goddess had become her professor. Avoiding him had only seemed prudent. And yet she _had_ to spend time in class, lest she fall under further scrutiny. Marianne couldn’t bring herself to meet those eyes when he pulled her aside to monitor her progress, afraid of what recognition she might see in them, and even more frightened by what she _wouldn’t_ see hidden under that mask of stone. 

The first time she’d risked a glance, she was...perhaps incredulous was the right word. What little she’d heard of the whispers said he was a demon, one who impassively severed life from countless bodies. He’d saved the imperial princess without even a flicker of emotion, so they said, as if his only purpose and desire was battle. Seeing him peering back at her, Marianne had found it difficult to comprehend how she’d ever believed the rumors. It was true that the professor was unparalleled in combat, and his expression hadn’t changed even then, but his eyes...his eyes were so, so deep, hundreds of thoughts swimming just below the surface. There had been no resentment in them, no contempt or vindictiveness—just curiosity. A very familiar curiosity, one she’d seen in countless other eyes just as dark as his, on faces just as implacable to most people. Marianne was used to reading emotions like that, through twitches of ears, flicks of a tail, posture and gait. She hadn’t been very scared of Byleth after making that connection. 

And then there was the way he canted his head about so often. Sometimes it was just in regard, to examine something of interest in another light, but those were only slight quirks. When he spoke to others, to _her_ , he would end up lolling his head over to one side, hair spilling over onto his shoulder. To tilt the head was to expose the neck, an action no living thing would ever take in even the suggestion of danger; to do so in the presence of another was an expression of trust and security. It said that there was nothing he feared from the person he spoke to, nor from the world itself, at that moment. Byleth was _comfortable_ with her. Something she’d tried to dissuade him from, something she’d tried to escape from—something she pretended not to notice at times so she didn’t have a reason to avoid him, and she could cling on to that turn of affection, that simple expression of trust, without having to suffocate under fathoms of guilt. 

Trusting her would bring nothing but misery to him in the end. Marianne had no doubt of that, and it had already proven true. But it made her happy. Just a flicker, but that was enough. In the same way that her chats with Dorte, visiting the cats by the market, or wandering into the greenhouse when it was empty did, spending time with Byleth like this made her happy. Such moments, sparse and grievously unearned as they were, were mainly limited to time spent only in the company of animals or the goddess. She forgot herself, that he was another person she had to take special care not to concern with her presence, as it would only bleed misfortune into every facet of his life. Perhaps it was because he was also at ease with her that she ended up letting her guard down. Maybe there was some sickeningly selfish part of her that was truly starved for attention, and didn’t care that he would be dragged down into oblivion. Or...maybe it was just that Byleth wasn’t so unnervingly, paralyzingly, _human_. 

He’d managed to successfully braid three links this time, and his pace was a _bit_ faster than the crawl he’d been going at before. Shoulders steadied and breathing even, Byleth looked to be having far less trouble. His head was even til—Oh. Marianne hadn’t noticed, but she had leaned her head over to one side too, sitting across from him in mirror image. Gauging his progress, she didn’t expect his eyes to meet hers for an instant, and she started slightly. His gaze was fluttering between her hands and his, every lap marked by his careful arrangement of a stem. Marianne slowed her own chaining as he mimicked her work, straightening to let him get a better view of her process. More than half of the flowers were gone from the pile. 

Even if she tried, she couldn’t give any single reason why Byleth’s presence felt so _different_. It was more like a million distinct idiosyncrasies, those tiny, inconsequential movements that seemed so strange and familiar, the silent perceptions that flashed through such dark eyes, the way he was so unaware of and divorced from typical convention, all coalesced into a profound feeling of an _other_. Marianne wasn’t the only one that noticed it either; even those who admired him thought him a natural anomaly, something too foreign to ever truly grasp. It was like he wasn’t always a human. As if one day, he had taken wing out of some primeval forest, sloughing off his own coat of feathers for one of textile. He would have taken a new skin, but the soul that lay beneath matched the ancient, ferine grace of that which he’d discarded. And that was...soothing, to her. That his heart was something she could understand. 

What skin would he have changed from, though? Maybe it was some sort of bias, but Byleth always seemed so avian, to her eyes. He had the same sort of face, one that bore expression or emotion very rarely. Birds were often misunderstood for this reason, as was he, and some people even thought them stupid for their “vacant” mien. One only had to look at the way they moved, the bobs of their tail, ruffles of their wings, puffs of the chest, and into the constantly moving impressions beneath their eyes, to prove that view unsound. They regarded the world with such unique wonder, as though everything were new, special, and worthy of observation. And as soon as they had scrutinized something to satisfaction, they’d move on to the next curiosity with a few snapping blinks and a flutter of their wings. It wasn’t at all dissimilar to how Byleth spent his time. 

Narrowing it down to particulars, however, was a bit more of a daunting task. Marianne allowed herself a few quick glances at him, just to have something to start from. He was the very image of skill and finesse on the field, with the latent, fatal inclination of a predator; some kind of raptor, like a hawk? Or maybe an eagle...They were certainly handsome birds, possessing of those wickedly keen talons and the knowledge to use them. But...no. He was confident enough, but hawks tended to tip that into pride, or even arrogance. Something much more humble...Vulture? Byleth’s unnerving, drawn-in appearance, the way he seemed to intimidate without intent, definitely fit a carrionbird. The demon, the bringer of death, and the reaper, the reveler in that slaughter—those impressions were just as facile to both of them. Many of the buzzards and vultures Marianne had made the acquaintance of were sweet, gentle things, concerned not in death, but the welfare of their flock. And Byleth...Well, there were similarities, yet it didn’t feel right all the same. To rely on the scavenging seemed a bit too passive for him.

Perhaps those wide, entrancing eyes instead spoke to a previous life as an owl. The way he seemed to glide through darkness, silent and sublime in effortless lethality, the soft, low thrum of his voice, and the stoic visage of a patient hunter had him blessed with similar virtues. Such similarities between the two seemed especially evident in his conduct in class. Talons clasped deeply but delicately into the wood of his desk as he would stand stiff in his perch, save fluid turns of his head and the flick and focus in his pupils...but that wasn’t it either. Owls were often decidedly simple-minded in their view of the world, secure that their own knowledge was enough. Their gaze just didn’t have the inquisitive gleam that tinted his. Byleth’s resemblance to these birds was a cursory assessment at best, not a creature she could attribute to sharing his _soul_. If someone relied on superficialities, he could be _mistaken_ for a raptor, but his demeanor lacked the edge of a solitary carnivore. 

Gregarious wasn’t the right word either, though. While he didn’t dislike the presence of others, Marianne never saw him seek out companionship...not like such birds did, anyway. Parrots shared his keen intellect and curiosity, but they formed such tight bonds in the flock and practically depended on their massive number of peers. They got along with their group easily if not perfectly, and a solitary parrot was rare as it was miserable. It just didn’t seem _right_ for him to settle down in a chirping mass of color and feathers, merrily preening his fellows as he chatted to them about their day. She watched as Byleth once again struggled to thread a stem into place, stumbled by his inexperience with such work. Not a parrot. 

She’d actually considered him for a pigeon before, after she’d run into him at the dovecote. Marianne had come to feed the doves, Byleth only to observe. He’d seemed so fascinated as the birds roosted and jostled on her arms to get the seed she had in her hand, shifting in place, leaning towards her with that enthralled look on his face; she’d asked if he wanted to feed them too, and he accepted readily. The pigeons weren’t as friendly with him at first, but warmed up as he proved to be a willing and capable perch. They’d swarmed him long after he’d run out of food, some even following him hopefully through the rest of the grounds, strutting along the top of the walls or astride the walkways. He and his new friends almost had the same walk, a formal, businesslike stride, a bob of their head, some ineffable thought of their next venture buzzing through their mind to which their feet tapped in rhythm. Even their choice of dress was the same: an overcoat of dark gray worn over softer hues, and slight iridescent tints of purple and cobalt about their heads. Flocks of doves were more loosely composed in keeping with his reservation, so he could’ve been one, but—it didn’t feel right, nonetheless. Maybe it was the fickle nature of a pigeon, that their attention could be so easily broken or bought out with the prospect of food. Byleth wasn’t so flighty. If he was, he wouldn’t be there, out of his way to talk to her, and putting all he had into some menial task.

What else...? There were so many kinds of birds she’d met, all with some number of qualities they shared with him. Garreg Mach alone played host to wrens, finches, tanagers, jays, sparrows, creepers, shrikes, chickadees, larks, buntings, warblers, starlings, weavers, thrushes...to name a few. Marianne had even thought of him at times when she watched the songbirds bounce through the trees. They were unassuming, adorable little creatures, but they looked so unafraid of the world, always preoccupied with some thing or another. Their fluid black eyes were mirrors of Byleth’s, dark and fathomless, as was the way they’d cock their head about in an assiduous vigor, trying to make sense of the world all at once. He was just about as busy as they were, ever with someplace to go, something to do, his overcoat fluttering behind him like an odd pair of wings. And still, none of them quite matched his heart in everything that it was. 

What was left? Gamebirds? No, they were the furthest from him yet. Maybe a different kind of passerine, like a crow—

“...and the crows were able to figure it out. Isn’t that interesting?” 

Marianne nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice. _Had she been saying all of that out loud?_ No, that was ridiculous, but how did he—was he responding to her? Could that even be a coincidence? She’d been so entirely consumed in thinking about which bird most resembled him that apparently she’d lost track of Byleth himself. A frantic and shamed search through her memory confirmed that yes, he had been talking for a moment prior, or at least she’d heard his voice. The words had gone unregistered. “I-I’m sorry?” Marianne said, lifting her eyes from yet another finished chain that had appeared in her hands. 

He followed suit, his gaze floating up to meet hers. She held his stare for a moment, mesmerized by the minute shifts in his eyes. Irises drew back and tightened once more, leaving his pupils to ever so slightly swell and recede as he regarded her, the motion and color of ocean waves. Unusually, Byleth was the one who looked away first, settling himself a little lower in his chair and reaching to fidget with his ear again. That was unfamiliar; Marianne had seen some form of anxiety pass through his gaze, but he’d broken away before she could get a better grasp on it. Was he finally getting sick of being around her…? It was only understandable, after she’d just ignored him like that, and it was in his best interest. 

“I was reading biological reports the other day, and there was one about crows,” he said slowly, measuring his words out. “It detailed a group of crows that...ah, they’re very smart birds. Apparently they have ‘well-developed episodic memory’.” His posture had wilted slightly, and his shoulders were hunched inwards. Where he’d had his arms spread out before, they were drawn in close in front of him, and his head was held rigidly straight. Discomfort. “Have you ever known any crows like that? Very intelligent ones.” 

The dread that had been clambering up her throat evaporated, or perhaps just cast into shadow by a sudden flush of enthusiasm. “Oh, yes. They’re such amazing creatures; I’ve known quite a few of them,” Marianne said. “When I lived with my mother and father, there was a flock of wild crows that frequented the courtyard. My parents let me feed them whatever we had to spare.” She couldn’t help but smile at the memory. There had been a particularly bold adolescent among the flock, always the first to turn up. She’d taken to calling him Lyr after a character in a favored storybook, but that information was...impertinent. “They were such clever birds though, that after some time, they started to bring their friends. They learned what time I’d come to feed them, and what days to expect the best food. That’s when they’d show up by the dozens, and they were all so sweet and expectant…Some of them even left things in return. Pebbles, buttons, even an earring, once!” She inclined her head to the side, just a touch, and let her eyes fall on Byleth. “I think those crows wanted to repay a favor. I think it’s true that they’re very intelligent, Professor, but they have such kind hearts.”

“They brought gifts?” he asked. He’d straightened back up again, the uncertainty receded. “Do you still have any?”

“Um, no. Not anymore,” Marianne was only truly aware of how high her mood had fluttered when it began to shoot back down. “I kept them in a box at home, but when I was...When my adoptive father took me in, they were left behind. Some of the flock must’ve followed me, or told their friends that I had food, because a few crows came to his estate.” She sunk lower into her seat. “They were just as friendly as they always were, but my adoptive father wasn’t fond of the way they trailed after me. There are unkind superstitions about crows, and my adoptive father was adamant in quelling any ill rumors that circled his house. The crows stopped showing up.”

“Oh, I...I’m sorry,” the professor said. His voice was quiet, laden with regret. Trouble stormed behind his eyes. Marianne shrunk away from him pitifully.

Why couldn’t she just hold a conversation without dragging it down? She’d made him unhappy, even ruined her own mood just by saying something she shouldn’t have. It had been her fault, anyway, and she didn’t need to make it his problem. Why was she even still here? Had she really been so caught up in her own world that she’d forgotten what happened to those who spent time around her? Should she just leave now? Or would it just make him even more hurt and upset if she was so rude to him? Did she have anything to contribute, or was staying quiet and out of the way her only course—would trying to be helpful to anyone ever truly bring anything but more and more unhappiness? Was it too late now that she’d become involved, and she was doomed to only sow further misery from arrogantly believing anything she could do would actually _help_? Goddess, what should she have done… What should she _do?_

The tumult of self loathing roiling about in her head was so pervasive, so loud, that it took several minutes of staring at her hands for her to remember what was in them. Right. The flowers. He’d done something kind for her, and now, in the end, it was just causing him stress, wasn’t it? The professor just wanted to learn how to chain them, and that was it. Once he made one, Marianne could extricate herself, and pray for forgiveness later. 

He was pointedly staring down at his flower chain, withdrawn from much of the table. The garland was...actually doing okay. The top looked a bit ragged, and a few florets had been tangled or bent the wrong way, but he’d managed to add a few more stems into the chain without much incident. It was far from perfect, but his hands seemed to be acclimated to the process; he was braiding along at a decent pace. They’d be done soon.

But he spoke again. “I—I happened upon something interesting about black vultures, too.” His gaze flitted up and around her, without quite landing. “They live up in the Oghma mountain range, and according to the field guide, they take mates for life. They even spend most of their time together when they don’t have a nest. But the book didn’t say anything about why. The wolverines that live there are…” he paused, eyes flicking backwards as he tried to recall something, “...polygynous. The males will sometimes visit the females, but they aren’t nearly as attached. For other animals, it said that two parent investment is sometimes necessary for the safe growth of the offspring, but the black vultures nest high enough that nothing predates them. And Oghma wolverines live in a less stable environment, but they still don’t need to stay together, let alone when they’re not raising a litter.

“Vultures are scavengers too, so they wouldn’t need the extra aid in hunting,” he finally met her gaze, though Marianne didn’t particularly want him to. He was getting excited again, features softened by that steadfast curiosity. “I couldn’t find an answer to why they live in pairs. Can you think of anything, Marianne?”

It took a moment for her to realize that the professor was truly, honestly, asking her for an answer. Not in the sense of correct or incorrect, but simply her own thoughts on the matter. Why would he ask her? Was he trying to humor her, in going out of his way to bring something up he thought she could answer? Or was she just such a pitiful student that her professor felt the need to check on her every now and again, outside of class. Is that what this was? 

“I’m sorry, I’m not well versed in ecology,” she mumbled. “I just, um, know the animals I’ve met. I don’t think I know any more about this than you do, Professor.” Marianne glanced up at him, hoping that would be enough to let him know it was a lost cause. But he was just staring at her expectantly, leaned forward, elbows resting against the table, with the telltale tilt of his head. He trusted her. He had faith in her judgement. It had felt nice earlier, before the full weight of the possible consequences had sunk into her shoulders, and now it just made her stomach twist.

“Well, most birds are monogamous...I think. The ones I’ve met anyway. I really can’t claim to know the science behind it, but...they always seem happier when they’re with their partners,” she said, swallowing dryly. It wasn’t just the questions, but the choice the professor was making to involve himself with her. And it wasn’t something he did solely out of responsibility, or he wouldn’t be looking at her so hopefully. “So, um...Maybe it’s just part of what’s comfortable and natural to them? For the vultures, too. Just to have someone with them, who they can put their trust in. Maybe if it makes them feel happier and safer, they can live longer and healthier lives…? I don’t really know, but that might just be a part of how birds choose to live.”

He was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly. “That’s a good point, actually. I suppose I was thinking too perfunctorily.”

“Why would you ask me?” 

She hadn’t meant to say it, and certainly not with such an edge to her words. It was less of its own, independent question, and more an amalgamation of the dozens of questions and anxieties that were swirling through the pit of Marianne’s stomach, all clawing their way out at once. Why hadn’t he left, why did he bother, why would he care when he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, and why she kept all of those fears for his sake, but couldn’t bring herself to break away. Why did she let herself forget all of this at times, would it even matter if she _had_ to be around him as his student anyway? Why did she even ask herself these questions when they all tangled around each other in a labyrinth, every answer knotting itself into another mass of problems, only to twine back to the beginning of what course would ever yield any good result. Why would he put his _trust_ in that?

The professor flinched away when she said it, ducking low over the table. Of course, she regretted it instantly, but for whatever reason, he was the one to apologize. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...I’m sorry to pressure you. It’s not that I was just trying to get answers out of you. I...I don’t know how exactly to put it.”

The garland in his hands has almost finished. He stared down at it as he spoke, weaving the flowers together with a finesse worlds away from how he was when he started. “I thought I knew enough about the world, for most of my life, but I didn’t. I was ignorant. I didn’t even understand much about people, though I’d been moving through the continent all my life. Being at the monastery, I came to learn how limited my perspective was.

“I’m still...not great with people, but I realized that the same thing is true of everyone’s view of the world. It’s limited in a way, always missing something. Most of the students here are heirs to something, so their concerns are their territories, etiquette, standing, and other ‘artificial’ things. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s incomplete. What was it…” Not lifting his eyes from the chain, he rolled his head to the side. “‘Mankind is a species that only ever enters dialogue with itself, and is fettered by the conclusion that its circuitous thoughts are entirely correct.’ I read that in the library. I didn’t really get it at first, so I’ve been thinking about it for a bit. I believe it was saying that humans only bother to understand things in their own way, or from the concerns and perspectives of other humans. The point it was trying to make was about the benevolence of the goddess and the miracles of the saints, but it actually made me think of you, Marianne.”

She froze. His voice had regained that soft, speculative tone, and hearing her name spoken like that was...incongruous with the thoughts about herself she’d just been carrying, to say the least. “You can understand the hearts of other species. Not just one, but dozens. And you actually _care_ to. Even in the Officer’s Academy, and among those who work as cavalry, I haven’t really met anyone like that. You can connect to countless other voices that make up so much of the world, and on top of that, you still worry about people. You’re kind.” He went rigid a moment, and shook his head slightly as if clearing away a fog. “...That is to say, you’re a remarkable person Marianne. Your input is truly valuable, and appreciated.”

Byleth reached for a last stem to add to his garland; there were only a few left. From the clouds in his eyes, he was clearly deep in thought, but he wasn’t fidgeting in trouble as he had before. When he spoke again, it was measured, each word chosen carefully, and without stress. “I am singularly fond of your presence, as well. I like talking to you, so...I apologize.”

The way he spoke about her was the way he recited what he’d been reading: simple, indisputable fact, without a trace of ambiguity. It was truth, irrefutable and doubtless, in his words. Attempting to process what he’d said was...slow. Her mind, which had been swirling into a froth just moments earlier, was suddenly blank. The questions plaguing her had vanished for the moment, except for one. One which she had the answer to as he lifted the blue of his eyes to hers. 

Magpie. That’s what skin he’d have been born of. Their appearance was very muted, monochromatic and professional, with that beautiful, iridescent blue that dazzled along their feathers in the sunlight; the color of his hair. Only a magpie could be his rival in sheer curiosity, and they even had the adorable, businesslike hopping gait that always brought him to mind. They weren’t dissimilar to crows either, full of intelligence and insight, always taking special delight in solving problems. And they were possessed of a reservation, one that welcomed others which they knew, but shied away from most. They were capable hunters, clever prey, and...so _sweet_. Magpies were known to show regular affection to those they were close to, staying together as paired birds do, and they even showed grief when they lost someone. They were modest, kind, calm, adept, dignified, inquisitive...and something about their face just looked like his. Had Byleth been anything else, now or ever, he would’ve been a magpie. 

And then the realization of what he’d just said to her snapped into place. He...He liked her? Some niggling thought told her she should feel guilty about why he’d even bothered to apologize, but Marianne was practically deaf to it at that point. Byleth was spending this time with her...because he liked to. That was what he said. And that she had value...that she was ‘remarkable’. It was indirect, but he’d even compared her to the _goddess_. None of that sounded right, but he hadn’t said it as a conjecture or hope. And trying to argue against it at the moment wasn’t working.

“I think this one is done.” His voice just barely reached her, and she nodded dumbly. “Thank you for teaching me. I realize I wasn’t the best at this, but I’m grateful.” In his hand was a completed garland, or most of one. On a closer inspection, there were stems sticking out at odd angles and at all sides, and the petals of more than a few flowers were crumpled or missing. But still, he’d managed to pull it together, and he’d even tied it together at the end to form a ring. The flowers he used must’ve been particularly healthy ones, because the smell of warmth and growth wrapped around it in a halo. He was holding it out to her, and she saw him swipe along at his ear again.

“Do you know what lily of the valley means in floriography?” he asked. She shook her head. “The book I’d read said they mean ‘return of happiness’. At first I thought that meant happiness was returning after a hardship, but it didn’t specify, so I had to come up with my own answer. The way it was worded made me think of ‘returning a kindness’—paying it back in kind.” He lifted it up and towards her slightly. “So, I wanted to give this to you.”

Byleth smiled. Softly, openly—happily. Happily? Was he saying she made him happy? Marianne had only seen him smile once or twice, and never like that. He’d smiled when something good happened, and that seemed to be it. But he was looking right at her, like that smile was just for her, because of her. He thought _she_ was the one making _him_ happy? What about— It didn’t—

“Th-thank you,” she stuttered, holding out one hand to him. “I...appreciate it.”

He straightened a bit and nodded as she took the garland from his outstretched palm, the faintest puff in his chest in that charming way that magpies did. “You wear your hair in braids, so I thought it might look nice…”

Wait. This was a crown—Byleth wanted her to wear it?! Did he have any idea of the implic—no, of course he didn’t. He’d just told her he gave her the garland because he thought it would look okay on her. And because she made him happy. Marianne had to keep reminding herself he’d said that, or it stopped feeling real. 

“Maybe…” She felt dazed. It wasn’t unpleasant, the opposite, if anything, but it was...difficult to form words. The numbness was finally starting to pass, and she felt warmth, running along her skin, rushing around in her stomach, and carrying her head up off of her body. Far too warm for this kind of weather. She really didn’t want to think about how flushed she must be. The hand that held the garland was the warmest of all, and feeling it under her fingertips made everything he’d said to her run back through her head. _Remarkable, kind, valuable, appreciated_...Things someone like her shouldn’t be called, but when he’d said it like that, without doubt or regress, the protests within her mind died down. They didn’t stop entirely, and maybe it was wrong to cling so tightly to the chain in hand, but to feel that way for just a minute… 

‘Return of happiness’, he’d said. Marianne looked to her other hand, where she still held her own in-progress garland. She didn’t even need to add another flower. 

Her hands were a blur as she wove together the last few flowers on the stems. Like he’d done for her, she wound the end around to the start of the chain, tucking the remaining length into another braid. “Um...here. You can have this, Professor. If you want,” Marianne said, barely holding out the garland away from herself. “In kind.” 

He looked at her, head pulled back in surprise, then down at her hand, eyes wide. She’d been avoiding them, but right now they looked...luminous. The rare smile had faded from his face, but not from his gaze; nor from her mind, where it cast a soft glow over all of her thoughts. _She made him happy._

“Thank you,” he said, finally taking the garland in hand. “I’ve never had anything like this…” Enthusiasm rather than bemusement hummed through his words. _She_ made _him_ happy. It sounded so silly, but expression or no, she could understand what Byleth was feeling right now. She felt it too.

Marianne gripped the garland he’d given her tighter, carefully lacing her fingers around the flowers. Without any provocation or necessity, apropos of nothing, Byleth had called her remarkable. He’d said her hobbies made her special, valuable, unlike anyone else, and meant it only as an honest assessment. Already, the doubts were mounting of whether she should be happy about that or just concerned, so she held the garland firmer. There was nothing for him to gain by giving her this. There was no reason he had to lie to her. He’d said it was because she made him happy. That just talking with her, with her limited capability, had brought him some comfort. And he was grateful to her. There was no reason to think that any less than true. 

“Marianne?” 

She jumped, suddenly aware of the fact she’d been staring into space past Byleth. He leaned over to one side to fit into her line of vision, a magpie sticking its neck out in investigation. “Sorry. What is it?” 

“You still have a few lilies of the valley left. Do you mind if I try to make another?” He hadn’t set the garland she’d given him down either, and was gently running his thumb over one of the florets. “I’m not confident I can do it again without your example.” 

Byleth was looking at her so honestly. Hopefully. She couldn’t—she didn’t want to turn him down. It would be okay, to just let it continue like this for just a bit longer. He was happy, and, for now...so was she. 

“That’s fine,” Marianne smiled. There weren’t many flowers left anyway. “Do you want me to show you again?”

Maybe he’d fly off one day, or maybe the feeling would wear off, and she’d have the compulsion to make herself scarce again. But...she’d made someone happy, through nothing other than being what she was. Something she’d done had actually, verifiably, brought comfort to another. Not just anyone, but Byleth, who’d done the same for her. And right now, even if it was only in this fleeting moment, that was more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! any comments/critiques welcome.  
> if you want to kill me irl, please send me pics of marianne and byleth in flower crowns and I'll put them into carefully labelled ration cans to use as sustenance for the next ten years


End file.
